


The Evidence of Us

by smolkristen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Do Not Repost Anywhere!, Features NSFW art, Frottage, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Miscommunication, Okaeri | yoihomezine, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolkristen/pseuds/smolkristen
Summary: Victor & Yuuri reassess what it means to make a home together after their first fight since “Let’s end this.”Created for Okaeri @yoihomezine





	The Evidence of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaintingWithWords (paint_with_words)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_with_words/gifts), [izzyisozaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyisozaki/gifts).



> Heaps of gratitude and love to Anne and Izzy. You two are incredible and I feel so fortunate to know you like I do. Thank you for all your support and encouragement!

Victor is change embodied. He’s at home in the fires, at home with burning himself down and building himself back up—better, stronger—season after season. Change is his lifeblood, his career, his charisma. But it’s also left him spinning in half-finished turns, endless and repetitive as Yuuri’s meditative figures, and these circles bring no relief.

Alone in the dark, he sits up in his apartment surveying the still hush of his home city. It’s not unexpected at four in the morning, the popping hail that woke him stopped a while ago, the city not yet awake. It’s easy to feel as though the world has frozen in place and he's the only one left functioning, an anomaly in the quiet.

He used to do this in an empty flat, sprawl on the cold hardwood floor and look up at the night sky and breathe into Makka’s coat to not feel so alone.

Yuuri changed that.

It’s more than an extra toothbrush slotted next to his or a rice cooker in the kitchen. More than the beat-up JSF jacket hanging off a chair or a pair of slippers by the bathroom door. More than the collections of tiny cacti crowding their window sills and insinuated between light-therapy lamps.

Victor never had a need for any of these things. Now the idea of even one of them missing makes his heart ache.

He pulls a tasseled blanket from the sofa, an impulse buy in Helsinki when he noticed Yuuri shivering while shopping for souvenirs. He wanted Yuuri to get a thicker, smarter coat, he’d need it in Russia anyway. But Yuuri insisted that a blanket would be fine, better even. Something they could take home and remember this time in their lives when they competed together.

They didn’t really need two, but Yuuri insisted, “It’s ok to buy something just because you love it. If it makes you happy, get it,” parroting Victor’s words from earlier in their trip right back at him. They settled on a pair of them in complementary color-ways, not too bright but still vibrant compared to his monochrome apartment.

Victor hadn’t realized the way Yuuri had tucked himself into every corner of his life. The changes were subtle enough that now, instead of lying on the floor to contemplate his place in the universe, he marvels at the soft comfort of this woolen keepsake and the realization that Yuuri has left dozens of other such mementos throughout their home. Each one calls to him, warms him deep like onsen waters chasing down chasms.

And why stare into the chilling infinitum of space when he can seek solace in the galleries Yuuri’s hung on every available wall? They’re just prints from their phones, something he wouldn’t have considered putting up before, but now he sees them for what they are.

This is the history of their happiness, a night out in China getting hotpot—one with clothes and one without, another poolside with Chris in Barcelona, several shots with the Katsuki family back in Hasetsu, and many with Yuuri, of course, all where Victor isn’t just wearing his smile.

It’s _wonderful_. And _terrifying_.

He understands now what he went without and can’t imagine what it would be like to have all of this, to hold it tight to him the way he does, and then suddenly not.

There’s a descent coming, the first held note of an opera before it plunges deep into oppressive longing. Victor stands on steady, taped-up feet to move back to their bed before it hits. He takes his blanket with him, unsure of what he’ll find there.

The bedroom is warmer than they usually keep it. Yuuri has stretched across the mattress, one hand reaching out like a vine seeking sunlight. His face is soft with sleep, no hint of their earlier argument lingers.

Something about that makes him burst into tears.

 

 ---

 

The surreal experience of moving into Victor’s apartment is tempered by the pervasive feeling that no one has ever lived here at all. Yuuri doesn’t really notice it the night they arrive, too frazzled from spending 17 hours as a piece of oversized luggage. Sure the walls and floors are nearly bare, and every surface gleams in a way that dares him to leave so much as a fingerprint behind, but Yuuri knows some of Victor’s things are still en route from Japan.

It doesn’t hit him until the next day that a banquet room’s worth of boxes would spread quite thin across the expanse of this penthouse. It reminds him, oddly enough, of his rental in Detroit. Even in the off-season, when he wasn’t literally living out of his suitcase, he owned little more than his costumes, skates, and things to maintain them.

But this isn’t some temporary overseas shelter. Victor has lived here since 2006. He’d mentioned buying it after his Olympic victory in Torino when his face was suddenly everywhere and he’d needed more security.

Yuuri can’t quite reconcile these white, sterile walls with the vivacious man he knows. The one who had mosquito bites on his forehead all summer because he kept leaving his window open. Who eats so enthusiastically he almost choked to death on grilled mochi three times. Who if left to his own devices will drink himself stupid and tumble into bed with phone numbers and money stuffed in the straps of his underwear.

It doesn’t look like the show home of The Victor Nikiforov, either. Russia’s hero doesn’t openly display his accolades and accomplishments. Instead, they’re stashed in a trophy case in a smaller bedroom that also holds off-season clothes and baggage, almost as an afterthought.

That’s where Victor finds him now.

“Yuuri? I thought you were heading out too?”

“I was—I am.”

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah, I just needed this.” He snaps up an empty duffel bag.

Victor eyes the flimsy nylon excuse. “Going shopping? Need me to come with you?”

Yuuri shakes his head, knowing from their shared calendar that Victor is only home to pick up Makkachin for a photoshoot. His schedule is packed after that, as usual. Once his shoes are on, Yuuri tips his lips up for a quick kiss and makes a run for it.

As he flies through Saint Petersburg on Mizuno trainers, the sequence of Victor’s achievements spreads out before him in the curved shapes of pre-Soviet rooftops. A slow, steady rise through juniors. Silver after silver during his senior debut. A major coup at his first Olympics. The odd bronze during a particularly rough flu season. Another peak before he tore his ACL. And then, nothing but gold.

Victor’s coaching credentials are the exception. They take the place of the 2016 GPF gold medal, the one Yuri took home because Victor wasn’t competing. He knows that, for Victor, there is no gap in his legacy. That he needed the break and better competition. Victor raised the level of figure skating to his stratum, carved his own adversaries. And now, because of Yuuri, Victor’s rejoined the fray. For better or for worse.

Yuuri mulls it over alone. The blank walls. The empty words on canvases. The hidden medals. It eats at a part of him.

Victor definitely knows something’s up, asks if there’s anything—anything—he can do, but Yuuri doesn’t have words for this feeling that aren’t corrosive. So he skates and skates and becomes frustrated when answers don’t hiss from his blades.

Kind soul that he is, Victor lets him work it through. He provides Yuuri with excuses like jet lag and culture shock and several poor nights of sleep from late-night gaming with friends in other time zones. Yuuri doesn’t know what to do with that kindness sometimes.

Two weeks of increasingly pissy behavior he can’t begin to explain, Yuuri runs past a flower shop and then doubles back to go in. Fresh cut flowers are always beautiful, and familiar, but he passes them by, searching the displays for something a bit more permanent.

The back wall of the shop is filled with live plants, the kind Victor doesn’t keep. His pots are full of plastic and variegated silk, hollow as his trademark smile, and Yuuri’s reluctance to lean too far into Victor’s space was slain the moment he accidentally watered fake Eucalyptus.

Skipping capricious orchids, he scans hearty, low-maintenance cacti. He takes home a skinny one with a fuchsia flower grafted to it. Then a bright green flat leaf. Then a fuzzy white one that’s sea urchin shaped. He buys one every time he wants to say something to Victor and can’t.

Soon the apartment is filled with short, barbed greenery and terracotta pots and still, Yuuri can’t find the words he wants to say.

 

___

 

Then it happens, seemingly out of nowhere. By some cosmic alignment, they’re home at the same time for dinner. Yuuri’s almost too tired to eat his takeaway salmon salad. He needs to get to bed but doesn’t want to miss this chance to catch up with Victor. Even if he has to watch him eat fried chicken. 

“I’ve been craving that weird corn soup drink from the vending machine at Hasetsu station,” Victor says, sneaking Makkachin a bite.

Yuuri pretends not to notice. “Corn Potage? Do you have anything like that here?”

“Nope! We’ll have to buy some corn and figure it out.”

“And when are you going to have time for that? 2030?” Yuuri deadpans, “Wait—that’s an Olympic year. Nevermind.”

He tosses his empty salad container in the trash and heads to the bedroom to unwrap medicine-soaked plasters on his feet. Victor’s practically at his heels.

“Hey. What was that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just,” he pulls at a wrap slowly, knowing it'll sting from being left on too long, and Victor’s hands take over like they have so many times before, “you’ve taken on a lot this season.”

“I know. But it’s not forever. Things will slow down soon.”

“Not if you keep saying yes to everything.”

“You just want me all to yourself again,” Victor teases, rising to discard the plasters.

Yuuri can’t argue against that. Especially when all he wants to do right now is monopolize Victor once more. Be selfish and take him back to Hasetsu and stuff him full of his mother’s cooking in a room jam-packed with his family’s kitsch. It’s a relief when Victor comes back and sits close to massage his nape.

“Don’t worry, I’ll manage it efficiently. I always do.” Victor seals that promise with a kiss on Yuuri’s shoulder and slowly turns him over to rub at his lower back.

Yuuri hums every so often as Victor goes on about the choreography he’s putting together and possible music choices. He sounds equally keyed up and exhausted and Yuuri feels like he’s overlooked something key.

“You’re happy,” he says as it comes to him.

Victor’s hands go still. “Of course I’m happy, you’re _here_.”

Yuuri flips over to look up at Victor, haloed by the kaleidoscope of glass pendants suspended from the ceiling. He feels untethered for a moment and he wraps his arms around Victor’s neck.

“I’m here,” he says, testing words that mean ‘I love you.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m worried about you.”

“I can handle it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Yuuri sighs, “Be careful, please.”

“I know, Yuuri. I know. It’s the same for me.” He cautiously rubs along the seam of Yuuri’s mouth.

“Speaking of careful, how’s your lip?” Victor asks, clearly referencing a nasty tumble Yuuri took when he was too tired to land his jumps but went after them anyway.

Yuuri bites at Victor’s fingers. “Why don’t you find out.”

“You’re so cruel to me.”

“I can be nice if you’re done calling me out,” he says, climbing to straddle Victor.

“For your shameless and blatant hypo—ahh—crisy? Never.”  

“That’s too bad. I had plans,” he rocks his hips for emphasis and winces when Victor kisses him the way he does everything—too passionate.

“Do those plans include listening to your coach?”

Yuuri snorts, “You know, I’m only trying so hard for the quad lutz so you won’t have to rearrange the whole program.” It’s the wrong thing to say. Victor puts space between them and holds Yuuri’s hands still. His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something, a fish on a bank.

“Victor, that was—”

The look on his fiance’s face is enough to quiet him. He hasn’t seen Victor vulnerable like this, without the mask of anger as a cover.

“It’s my job to look out for you when you're on the ice. Not the other way around. I can’t believe you’d—” He stops and takes a breath. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?” Yuuri asks to the bathroom door Victor shuts in his face.

Victor is in and out of the bathroom with a speed Yuuri has never witnessed, his face shiny with moisturizer.

“You can have the bed,” Victor says, leaning to grab his silk-covered pillow and a phone charger. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“What? No—”

“It’s fine. I have a fitting at 7:30 and I’ll wake you too early if you sleep out there. You need your rest, I don’t want to argue over flubbed jumps tomorrow.” 

“ _Victor_.” 

“Meet me on the ice at 9:30? Unless you’re firing me again?”

And then he does it. Pulls that backpocket ersatz smile of his as if this was some kind of press junket or sponsor meeting and that stupid fucky smile will cut a deal here.

Yuuri slams the bathroom door and leans back against it. He catches his reflection, fierce eyes and an angry mouth, and wonders if this is what Victor decided he’d had enough of when he opted out of their bed. He doesn’t blame him.

 

___

 

In the middle of the night, with a blanket draped over him, Victor stands by the end of the bed like a malevolent spirit come to take a life. It’s a hell of a thing to wake up to.

“Oh my god, don’t _do_ that!” Yuuri grumbles after a high-pitched, broken-off scream.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Victor says in a cottony voice thick with undeniable tears, even if Yuuri can’t see them. He sits up and taps a lamp. Victor’s face is a beautiful, wet mess.

“Wha-what happened?” Yuuri says before remembering their argument. “Oh Victor, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, but...” his eyes close and his fisted hands shake, gripping his Helsinki blanket too tight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you sleep on the sofa no matter what.”

“No, I’m the one who insisted. I just—I didn’t want you to leave.”

“Victor,” He bites out, then joins their hands together and softens his voice, “I wasn’t going anywhere. You never have to put yourself between me and the door.”

Yuuri knows this isn’t entirely his fault, that Victor was in a state of entropy when they met. But the last time they’d had a serious disagreement, he’d leveled his fiancé with three words, threw his trust away with a firm and decided, “Let’s end this.”

He smooths his hands over Victor’s bedhead, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and his rumpled pajamas. Victor always had a hard time sleeping in clothes, especially shirts.

“Let’s take these off, ok?”

It’s warm enough in their bed, curled up under their blankets with Victor turned towards him, their legs laced together. He can’t help but kiss that stupid bald spot. The man he loves is physically perfect except for this. Or maybe especially because of this. It’s a reminder that Victor is real and human and that they’re close enough for him to know Victor’s weak spots.

Victor knows his, too. He nuzzles under Yuuri’s jaw, kissing lazily against the soft patch on his neck. One hand wanders down, over his hip, to predictably land on the swell in his boxers. For a moment, he goes with it, taking the pleasure Victor gives him.

But they have rules about this, about using sex as an apology or a way to sway. It hadn’t gone well last time, their argument festering for a full day without really coming to a resolution until Yuuri presented Victor with an “unkissable” silver medal. Sex muddled things.

He pulls Victor’s hand away, intertwines their fingers so Victor can’t move it back so easily. Saying no to Victor is about as hard as he is, but he still says, “We need to talk first.”

“We talked.” Victor insists, his voice low and sleepy, “We’re ok.”

“We’re going to be.”

Victor seems to fill in the ‘but we’re not right now’ for himself and squirms, making space between them.

Yuuri sighs and nuzzles against Victor’s bare shoulder. “Our problems aren’t just going to go away. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to say anything that’ll...” Victor pauses, “set you off.”

That’s exactly what Victor’s evasive words do. Yuuri hauls Victor over him, forcing eye contact.

“Ok, I need to set something straight right now. I’m not great at this. I don’t know what I’m doing—at all. And we’re going to disagree.” His voice trembles, “We’re going to have arguments and fight. We have before and we will again. But you don’t have to hold back because you think I’m going to throw down some harsh ultimatum. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.

“Now _talk to me_.”

___

 

They argue into the morning, rescheduling their early appointments and ice time for later. There is no off-season this year. Victor is slightly behind in his training, so he’ll be playing catch-up while coaching Yuuri, and the Olympics approach. Yurio has also asked for choreography, as have dozens of others at their skate club. Only Yuuri’s SP is fully fleshed out.

Victor has a minimum of five stellar, Olympic level programs to churn out over the summer, and with so many competitors adding additional quads, he’ll need to up his stamina. There’s no time to rest on laurels, not if they want to dominate the podium in PyeongChang.

Russia has an excellent chance at gold for the team event as well. Yuuri’s not going to just lay down and let them take that either, but realistically he knows, probably better than any other outsider, the overall level of Russian figure skating.

And here was the crux of their fight.

“Delegate something—anything. Let Yurio handle the team event.”

“What if he gets injured? You know how distracted he gets.”

Victor’s worry isn’t unfounded. He’d injured himself so badly in the Vancouver short program that it had been reported as a career-ending injury for several days.

“I know you think fewer events mean fewer chances for things to go wrong, but it’ll be good for him to get more performance experience. It’s his first Olympics.”

“It’s your first Olympics, too.”

“And I’m doing the team event as a warmup.”

His eyes train on Victor’s face, noticing a subtle but perceptible frown. He’s spent an entire season trying to interpret Victor’s expressions. It’s still difficult. Yuuri is only starting to understand the intricacies of this person. He’s never flexed these muscles before, never really tried to understand anyone. It’s as scary and awkward as his first jump, and the toe loop couldn’t just turn around and say, “Hey, you’re terrible at this, time to give up and move on.” Whereas with Victor...

‘ _You’re here_ ,’ echoes in his mind from last night. He doesn’t need to wonder and worry anymore. He can ask.

“Why are you so set on this?”

“It’s my last Olys. And likely my last season.”

It’s the answer every talk show host and journalist has been hounding them about since Victor announced his comeback. Victor was as adept at evading their questions as he was at quad flips. And while Yuuri had his guesses, it was a sore spot since Barcelona. They hadn’t breathed a word about retirement since.

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” Victor continues in a rush, “but I don’t want to have any regrets.”

He drapes himself over Yuuri and lets his weight sink them deeper into the bed.

“It’s a relief to say it out loud.” Then, quieter, “Please don’t be upset.”

That’s asking the impossible. Victor’s skating is a gift and facing one another for only a handful of competitions doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough. But it will have to be.

Instead of putting up a brave face, Yuuri wraps his arms around Victor’s neck and says the truest thing he can think of. “I wish I’d met you sooner.”

Victor cradles his face like it’s gold, his palms hot, and there’s a moment where they’re really seeing each other.

“I wonder if I would’ve appreciated you as much as I do now.”

Yuuri is the first to break, crashing his rough, busted lips against Victor’s soft, high maintenance mouth. Nothing lights a fire in Yuuri’s belly as much as Victor looking at him like this—on or off the ice.

It’s as if Victor can feel the change in him. He lets his mouth go hungry, pulls away to strip Yuuri down.

“We’re supposed to skate in,” Yuuri squints at the clock.

“2 hours.”

“2 hours,” he says, as if he read it without help. “And you still have to pack—”

Victor kisses him again. “I know. I can do that later.”

“Last time you said that, we ended up scrambling to make our flight home.”

“It was worth it,” Victor says against his neck.

Yuuri is taken back to their Helsinki hotel room, where they draped their new blankets over them like a cave and Victor fucked him until he couldn’t see through his sweaty bangs and fogged up glasses. He remembers running for their gate with less fondness.

Still, he agrees, “It-it definitely was.”

Victor is already teasing his nipples, his mouth trailing down to join his thumbs and Yuuri struggles for a moment. Ending up beneath his fiancé is inevitable if they continue on this path, and Yuuri doesn’t feel like being taken or like delving inside Victor anymore than he already has.

He puts his hands on Victor’s chest and pushes him into the mattress. He doesn’t need to ask if this is ok. Victor goes down easily, like it’s a blessing.

His face heats up as he stretches the strap of Victor’s thong to the side and lets him spring out, falling heavy against his stomach. Victor’s big, too big to stand tall unless he’s fully erect, and he knows now that it takes Victor a while to get keyed up. It had been a major blow to his confidence the first few times, being so hard it hurt while having to coax Victor to join him.

Victor admitted to being nervous when Yuuri finally asked about it. Who would’ve thought Victor Nikiforov would experience anything like performance anxiety in bed?

“It’s because it’s you,” he’d said. “Because you _matter_.”

Hovering and breathless, Yuuri stills at the sight of Victor spread out for him. It’s entirely devastating and he wonders if it will always be so. As if to assure him that it will be, Victor skims his hand along his navel and then palms himself. His eyes train on Yuuri as he slowly wraps his hand around, strokes until the head is dark and shiny. Yuuri leans forward, stills Victor’s hand with kisses and a sharp, insistent nip. Knowing what comes next, a shiver runs through them both.

Victor is thick and warm on his tongue and Yuuri revels in his clean scent, drawing it in deep before his throat is too full for breaths and his nose is pressed against skin.

“Go easy, _zolotse_. You don’t have to take it so deep.”

Yuuri cocks his head to give Victor a look, then takes everything down again in one showy swallow.

He tries to keep eye contact, even with his face buried in Victor’s lap. Those plump pecs he adores block all but the elegant swoop of silver fringe and an open red mouth. Needy moans fight against the pounding in his ears, a side effect of holding his breath, sucking, and letting the blood rush to his head as he bends over.

Blunt nails bite into his shoulders and he hears Victor’s wrecked voice.

“This is so good. You’re amazing,” followed by quick, mumbly Russian.

Some he understands and some Victor pointedly refuses to teach him. There’s a hitch and then more of what he knows is lewd Russian, followed by a punched out, “Yuuri—close.”

Hips bucking at the thought, he lifts off and goes right for Victor’s mouth, filling the room with the sound of wet, messy kisses. Victor pulls at every part of him, his arms and shoulders, his back, his legs, his heart and his soul. He comes up for air and presses their foreheads together. Drowning in pleasure can wait. He wants to see Victor’s face when he comes.

Yuuri’s feet slip repeatedly in the silky sheets, so Victor spreads his legs wide and takes over, thrusting up. But it’s not enough.

Yuuri gasps, climbing up further, seeking more _everything_. Victor’s hands grip his hips, pulling them close, and soon they lift and fall together, riding the same current of a rising wave. Victor reaches lower, slipping underneath the tight band of Yuuri’s underwear.

“Off. Now,” Victor insists.

Yuuri pushes up and allows Victor to strip away his boxers, nearly falling when they get caught on his ankle. He pulls Victor’s thong off and takes him into his mouth again, unable to resist another taste. Popping off too quickly, he clambers between pale legs, hips rolling until they find their rhythm again.

He tucks himself tight against Victor’s shoulder, burying himself in platinum hair so he can whisper things he’d never be able to say with Victor’s eyes on him. Not when he’s so overwhelmed like this. It’s funny because he can ride Victor while demanding more, but saying _I love you_? Without wavering? Impossible.

“I want to be inside you.” Victor whines, desperate.

“Hush,” he says, dipping his fingers into Victor’s suddenly slack mouth. Then, before Victor can argue, he reaches down with slick fingertips. “Let me take care of you.”

It’s a promise he keeps.

 

 

Things look different with the afternoon sun blazing through the apartment. Victor stretches out in an empty bed, his body pleasantly sated from restful sleep and Yuuri’s attention, however brief. He doesn’t need to check the time to know he’s missed all of today’s appointments.

It’s also obvious that Yuuri has been up for a while. There are pans in the sink. The table is set with their matching couples mugs and plates of food. A printed recipe for Corn Potage rests next to the sewing kit on the counter, and he can see the loose patch on his skate jacket has been repaired.

Victor takes a deep breath.

“You’re up.” Yuuri greets him with a shy kiss and sits down, motioning for Victor to take a seat.

Yuuri’s always perky after sex, if a bit embarrassed. He hides behind his mug and pretends to drink steaming hot coffee.

“Just as a warning, I made the rolled egg too sweet,” Yuuri says as Victor is about to stuff a large piece into his mouth.

“I’m sure it’s good.” He takes a bite and wrinkles his nose. “Well, maybe a smidge.”

Yuuri’s wobbly smile says ‘told ya so.’

“What if… I add jam? Like blini.”

“Jam is your answer to everything,” Yuuri says, but he also adds a dollop of the thick, gooey strawberries and takes a bite. “Ok, that’s actually delicious. Vkusno.”

Yuuri’s accented Russian is really cute. He watches as Yuuri takes more jam for his rolled egg and then adds a little to his tea as well.

Victor smiles around the ends of his chopsticks. He and Yuuri are changing together. It’s good and real and more than he could’ve even known to ask for. And though it sometimes feels as if the evidence of them is revealed bit by bit like treasure buried in melting snow, he knows these are the foundations on which their love is being steadily, carefully forged.

They’re building something to last.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I had a lot of fun writing and drawing these good boys. I’m especially weak for Yuuri’s soft face in this one. <3


End file.
